


Empathic Seduction

by NerysDax



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:10:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerysDax/pseuds/NerysDax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world controlled by the Dark Lord, the richest witch around is the Muggle-born hidden in plain sight. Can Hermione Granger keep her true identity a secret when Bellatrix Lestrange's desires threatens the safety of everyone who works for her?</p><p>Story is written for the Tomione Forum Spring Fic Exchange Challenge as a gift to y3llowdaisi3s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empathic Seduction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [y3llowdaisi3s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/y3llowdaisi3s/gifts), [Tomione_Forum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomione_Forum/gifts).



> Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
> 
> A/N: Uchiha_s was kind enough to read it over for any remaining weirdo typos and word choices I tend to make (homonyms I love thee). ^^

**Empathic Seduction**

The Dark Lord looked out over the world satisfied. He had conquered them all years ago and nowadays he was generally overseeing matters from afar in his headquarters. His personal attention was rarely needed since people were so dim-witted they couldn’t separate a broom from a carpet. Still, he needed to keep an eye on some things every now and then. Make sure his followers didn’t get any crazy ideas and stayed in line.

 

Slowly, he strolled through the corridors on his way to the meeting he’d called. Everyone he passed bowed their head to him in acknowledgement of his superiority. An even mix of fear and admiration of his abilities oozed off of them in spades. Yet lately there was something else in their eyes, too: a form of contentment and satisfaction he had not seen before. It puzzled and slightly amused him. He knew the origin was the new brothel, but he failed to see the attraction. Carnal pleasures were not unknown to him, but he had risen above them long ago, and condescendingly, he looked down on everyone who failed to do the same.

 

This particular brothel, or rather its true owner since she had many similar establishments around the globe, had been Lucius Malfoy’s discovery. Malfoy had been on vacation in Australia when he had crossed her path and had politely asked her to start up an establishment in the UK personally. Lord Voldemort was very glad said owner—a rich witch called Madame Cleo—had complied with the elder Malfoy’s wishes, because otherwise Lucius would have come to him, complaining, and he would have been far from pleased if he would have had to get personally involved in rubbish such as this.

 

Apparently, Madame Cleo had enough intelligence to realise that denying one of his seconds in command would inherently mean getting a visit from the most powerful wizard of all, and the woman had taken up shop in London to the delight of a lot of his weak followers. Paying for sex, such stupidity. He had always taken what he wanted when he wanted it, and he had never been without a warm body to satisfy his needs in the past when he still desired a physical release. He was proud to claim he no longer was a victim of such abysmally weak needs. The power to control oneself and overcome what was common and necessary to others was after all the first step in controlling the world, showing how you were superior in all things.

 

No, the only one he had any respect for in this equation was this Cleo woman, who made a fortune on the weaknesses of men and women with her ‘all your fantasies will come true’ slogan.

 

He, finally, reached his destination and walked inside what he’d heard others call reverently the throne room. The name had amused him greatly since to him it was merely a place where he commanded his subordinates and he was by no means the type of impotent, powerless royalty the UK had known before him. However, realising it strengthened his position, he’d let the name slide and hadn’t corrected them.

 

‘—and the little Mudblood bitch screamed when I broke her ribs one by one,’ Draco said smugly. ‘You really should go one day, Crabbe. Father really outdid himself by telling Madame Cleo to move to London.’

 

The Dark Lord quickly walked to his ‘throne’, not interested in hearing more about Draco’s pathetic escapades at all. The boy was in his thirties now, and still, he did not cease to be a spoilt, little brat. He could tell by the look on Lucius’s face that the man was not happy about his son’s indiscrete behaviour. The pure-blood nodded his head in respectful acknowledgement of his Lordship’s presence as Voldemort ascended the elevated platform, but the disappointment in Draco was ever so visible in his aristocratic features. Lord Voldemort calmly sat down and leaned sideways to close the gap between him and the standing Malfoy.

 

‘Something the matter, Lucius?’ Lord Voldemort asked quietly, knowing perfectly well what was bothering the pure-blood.

 

Lucius shook his head in clear resignation. ‘I thought I raised the boy right, but I can’t get it into his thick skull how much he demeans himself by informing the world he needs to destroy that Granger woman over and over again. How much power he is still handing out to that Mudblood,’ Lucius spat. ‘Everyone knows it isn’t even Granger herself he is doing this to, since that despicable Mudblood has more intelligence than my son and is nowhere to be found. The woman he is beating up is just one of Madame Cleo’s illusions. He is making himself and me look like an utter fool. A true Malfoy keeps his sexual interests private.’

 

‘Want me to … “explain” that to him?’ Voldemort asked, smirking viciously.

 

‘I wouldn’t want to impose on your schedule, my Lord, especially not for such insignificant matters,’ Lucius replied diplomatically.

 

‘It’s of no inconvenience to me,’ Voldemort said smoothly.

 

It amused him to see Lucius squirm to protect his feeble son, and he was curious to see when Draco would push his father so far that he would stop protecting him. Now, however, Draco had not reached the limits of his father’s patience. ‘I appreciate your offer, Master, but I made a deathbed vow to my wife I need to uphold.’

 

‘If you change your mind, Lucius, the offer remains.’

 

‘Thank you, my Lord.’

 

The Dark Lord nodded courteous to Lucius, gesturing to him to call attention to everyone in the room, and went on to the daily business at hand. He knew Narcissa had demanded of Lucius to keep Draco safe on her deathbed, and he respected how Lucius did everything in his power to uphold his late wife’s wishes. As long as it didn’t interfere with his servitude to him, he did not mind. Draco’s foolish behaviour had, after all, no impact on his agenda and standing.

 

Today’s meeting was over quickly. He only had to Crucio two of his Death Eaters for failing their respective assignments, and that was it. It was unusual how lately almost all of his followers performed their tasks in such eloquent and expedient manner. But he wasn’t complaining. It saved him a hell of a world of trouble and loads of headaches. It was just peculiar how their efficiency had increased after the arrival of Madame Cleo to this country. Pathetically weak, he scoffed mentally. He rose from his chair and glided through his followers haughtily.

 

‘—a truly delightful woman. You really should pay her a visit, Rodolphus. She allowed me to do everything I wanted—no stops, no limits—and when I came back, I didn’t even need to explain myself. She had a room and a little bitch ready in no time,’ Macnair said, his eyes glinting maniacally.

 

Lord Voldemort arched a non-existent eyebrow when he overheard this. Macnair was never welcome in any brothel, since he adored ‘playing’ with his knife a bit too much. And when he did gain access to an establishment, it usually was a one-time occurrence. Nobody wanted to clean up after his mess for a second time, and most brothels valued their whores a bit more than to sacrifice them to Macnair’s sadistic pleasures. The Dark Lord couldn’t help but wonder how Madame Cleo accommodated this particular fantasy without losing all her personnel.

 

xxx

 

‘Cleo’s Place’ was all the innocuous plaque said on the hardwood front door as the rain clattered loudly against its metal. Hermione ran across London Street in her long, black leather cloak, for as far as one could run on the heels she wore these days. Her umbrella had gone up in smoke—the wind had ruined it completely—and she was using a modified Banishing Charm to keep the rain from pouring down on her body relentlessly. She reached the front door to her establishment when a pop sounded and Lucius Malfoy Apparated beside her. Ever the gentleman, he immediately held his umbrella above her head.

 

‘Madame Cleo,’ Lucius said, kissing her hand, ‘always a pleasure.’

 

‘The pleasure is all mine, milord,’ Hermione replied graciously.

 

Opening the door for her and giving her a polite nod with his head, letting her enter first, Lucius followed Hermione into Cleo’s Place. From all the Death Eaters, he was always the most cultivated and genteel one. Although Hermione held no illusions to how he would treat her if he ever found out her true identity. But her specialised Glamour Charm was quite advanced, and no one was able to see through it. She had been worried the first time Severus Snape had arrived. He had, after all, been her teacher for six years and knew all about her idiosyncrasies. Hermione had done her very best not to fall into the mistake of making a gesture or move, which could be relayed back to her old bushy-haired, know-it-all self.

 

But she had nothing to be concerned about. Severus Snape turned out to be a very lonely man who only came by every once in a while to be with his old love. It had shocked Hermione to the core when she realised whom Snape’s fantasy was about, but she had soon got used to seeing Lily Potter-Evans enter her old Potions Master’s chamber. In the beginning she’d considered reaching out to him, trying to get him to join the resistance, but upon seeing the true condition of his fragile mental state, she’d concluded it was too big a risk to take and left the wizard alone to be comforted by his fantasy.

 

This was exactly what Hermione’s brothels were famous for. She could make everyone’s dream a reality. No matter how impossible the request would appear at first sight; she would make it happen. It was a perfect cover to find out people’s innermost secrets. Plus, men and women tended to chat too much in brothels; they told secrets to show off, to vent, or to find comfort, redemption. There was a good reason all of her brothels stood in the major capitals of the world, as close as possible (without it being too obvious) to the government buildings. Several of her prostitutes were the best spies one could find, and Hermione had gained a significant amount of knowledge regarding the weaknesses and strengths of Voldemort’s reign.

 

People would do just about anything to be able to fulfill their deepest, unmet desires.

 

Even those who did not know what they desired could come to Madame Cleo, and she would use her deductive skills to determine what they truly wanted. Hermione was one of the few magical Empaths still alive. Empaths were capable of sensing another person’s magic. She had never thought much about it when she was still in Hogwarts, because she didn’t know about this rare phenomenon. She thought everyone felt what she felt, too, and that it was normal to feel a person’s magic flow around him or her. It wasn’t until she came in contact with another Empath that she learnt her ‘gift’ was not ordinary, and much feared by the Wizarding World.

 

Hermione had, then, honed her skills in secret to the point where she was able to gain access to the innermost turmoil of a person’s emotions. And it was this very ability that had made Hermione one of the richest women of the planet, even though she hid her true talents by pretending to be a Seer (to her utmost disgust). Although she had never planned to use her skills under the scrutiny of so many of her enemies in the centre of Lord Voldemort’s base of power, she did not fail to see the deep irony of the matter, now that she had to.

 

‘Madame Cleo, Milord Malfoy,’ Marvin said, welcoming them.

 

‘Marvin,’ Lucius replied courteously.

 

‘Hello, Marvin,’ Hermione said. ‘Could you please show Mr Malfoy the way to our best room?’

 

‘Naturally. If you would be so kind as to follow me, sir?’ Marvin asked, holding out his hand to show the way.

 

‘Madame,’ Lucius nodded back to her.

 

‘Sir,’ Hermione replied gracefully.

 

She watched Lucius Malfoy sign the clearance form, which was purely a formality in his case, and follow Marvin down the corridors to his meeting with Mistress Suzy. Somehow, the knowledge that the Malfoy patriarch was a masochist did not come as a surprise to Hermione. One probably had to be if one willingly chose to serve the Dark Lord. Not to mention the fact that the Blacks were all pretty dominant individuals, too. Hermione had developed a new kind of understanding towards Lucius after he’d told her all about his late wife and how much he really missed her. Too bad he was a pure-blooded, bigoted arse for the rest of the time, but she just couldn’t hate him as much as she used to after he showed this vulnerable human side of himself.

 

No, if she looked at the Death Eaters who visited her establishment, the majority had very ordinary fantasies. Only a couple of them were complete nutcases—rude bastards who thrived on causing pain to an extreme that would have made Hannibal Lecter want to devour them. However, she could provide even those sadists a male or female prostitute to service them. Hermione had created a Healing Charm that was so effective that no internal damage could be done no matter what the person had to endure. And as for pain, well, her personnel deserved a Bafta for their fake screams and pleas, because the Preventive-Pain Potion made sure nothing could be truly felt. But this was a well-kept secret by all those who earned their rather large wages in Cleo’s Place.

 

Hermione waited behind the counter until Marvin returned, after which she went into her office that was stationed at the left side of the lobby, so she could immediately intervene when her presence was required. But most of the time, this was not necessary. As the owner of the establishment, Hermione only showed her face to the important clients and when her employees could not determine the fantasy of a client. Sometimes, she had to Portkey abroad for this exact reason, but that was fortunately very rare. Not many witches and wizards were powerful enough to require personal attention—most of the time, her specialised ‘empathic’ form did the trick. All clients had to sign this so-called release form to state they had no venereal diseases, but this form was in fact charmed by Hermione to tell her employees what the client fantasy was about, so they could supply it.

 

This method consisted of donating some of her empathic skills using an Arithmancy equation combined with a draught of an ancient Muggle tribe and a drop of Amortentia to a piece of parchment. It took a lot of the workload from her shoulders, not having to dig into all those emotional states of every client that passed through all of her doors every day. Without it, she never would’ve been able to establish more than a couple of brothels. And it saved her from having to have direct personal contact with everybody who entered, which was quite a blessing, considering the enemy territory she now inhabited.

 

It amused her severely to consider how many of her adversaries brought their money to her place. A vile smile came upon her face when she saw Draco Malfoy enter. If only he knew he was filling her Gringotts vault every time he came by to hit ‘Hermione Granger’ to pulp, he would probably morph permanently back into a ferret by default. And by Merlin, Draco did leave a lot of his family’s fortune in her establishment, because sometimes he would come twice in one day.

 

 _Talk about someone having serious self-esteem issues to still be haunted by me beating him at everything back at Hogwarts_ , Hermione thought, mentally shaking her head. _Spoilt brat._

 

‘Welcome to Cleo’s Place, Mr Malfoy; your room is waiting for you.’

 

Without acknowledging her, Draco signed the form and walked away.

 

‘Have a nice day,’ Hermione said cheerfully, glad to see him go and leave the counter back in the hands of the ever so capable Marvin.

 

‘They’re both here?’ Marvin observed, unhappy.

 

‘Hardly avoidable with the amount of time his son spends here,’ Hermione countered. ‘I’ll be in my office, Marvin.’

 

‘Yes, Madame Cleo,’ Marvin said formally.

 

Hermione winked at him and he gave her an exaggerated bow in return, causing her to laugh. In the distance she heard Draco Malfoy snarl about something he found unpleasant and unworthy of his almighty being, and Marvin sighed. ‘Should’ve stayed upstairs a bit longer,’ he muttered.

 

‘Lucky me, you get to deal with the whiner,’ Hermione said, sticking out her tongue to him playfully.

 

‘I deserve a raise!’ Marvin called out right before she closed the door to her office behind her.

 

Hermione knew Lucius was not happy about his son’s exhibitionistic, crude and loud behaviour. So she’d made sure Draco was always at the other side of the building as his father. Her staff also knew to do everything in their power to avoid having the two run into each other at the lobby when they were here simultaneously. It could be quite a hassle at times, especially since Draco wasn’t very accommodating when it came down to listening to the suggestions of her staff.

 

However, when it came down to the reputations of brothels, discretion and privacy was one of the other virtues Cleo’s Place was well-known for—a reputation that was imperative to uphold, given that her brothels were, after all, just a front for her worldwide resistance movement. This way they learnt of many politicians true allegiances and would use it when necessary. She’d avoided the UK when setting up her business, finding it too risky, but now that she was here, she hadn’t laid back even though none of her prostitutes here knew who she truly was or spied on their clients for her. She still gained enough information through the chatter in the break room, or what was told to her personally. Her files were getting thicker and thicker as each day passed by. Voldemort’s hold on the UK was stronger than in the rest of the world, but it was by no means perfect. People remained people after all.

 

She was almost done with doing her belated administration when Marvin knocked on the door and entered. Hermione looked up from her paperwork questioningly.

 

‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but there is a problem with a new customer,’ Marvin said apologetically.

 

‘Can’t determine the fantasy?’ Hermione asked, putting down her quill.

 

‘No, her fantasy is pretty obvious to everyone,’ Marvin said nervously. ‘It’s what is giving us the problem. If word got out we serviced her …’ he trailed off, fidgeting with his hands. ‘Well, people talk. _He_ could find out.’

 

Hermione stood up and looked through her one-way window into the lobby. At the counter stood Bellatrix Lestrange.

 

‘Merlin’s pants,’ Hermione blurted out.

 

‘Yes, that is what I thought. What do you want me to do?’

 

‘Nothing, I’ll handle this,’ Hermione replied.

 

‘The Dark Lord will not be pleased if—’

 

‘I said _I_ would handle it, Marvin,’ Hermione interrupted authoritatively.

 

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

 

‘Why don’t you go and see if floor thirty-one will be ready for use soon,’ Hermione ordered. ‘We’ll need the additional space quickly.’

 

‘I always love to kick a couple of arses around,’ Marvin said, smiling.

 

Hermione laughed. ‘I know you do.’

 

She straightened out her long, black dominatrix dress and walked into the lobby to welcome Mrs Lestrange-Black.

 

‘Welcome to Cleo’s Place, Mrs Lestrange. I am Madame Cleo,’ Hermione stated in a formal tone of voice. ‘I see you filled out our form.’

 

‘Yes, though I find it quite insulting.’

 

‘It’s for your safety and ours as well. This way I can guarantee a healthy partner for my customers every single moment of the day.’

 

‘I suppose,’ Bellatrix grunted.

 

‘However, speaking of your and our safety,’ Hermione started, ‘how discrete are you?’

 

‘I beg your pardon,’ Bellatrix snapped, irritated.

 

‘I can supply you with what you desire; but if word got out…’ Hermione trailed off, watching Lestrange silently.

 

A slight twinge of unease flickered through Bellatrix’s face, but her composure was back up quickly. ‘Are you saying you are denying me as a client?’ she threatened.

 

‘No, we have a strict policy of servicing everyone,’ Hermione replied calmly. ‘I’m just wondering if you’ve considered the ramifications for you if your visit here would become known to certain others.’

 

‘I heard you were supposedly very discrete,’ Lestrange said haughtily.

 

‘Yes, we are. But I can’t guarantee you won’t run into a familiar face here, and someone can always see you enter or exit the building.’

 

‘So?’ Bellatrix said, shrugging. ‘I don’t care if _He_ punishes me for this afterwards. But if you can’t do the job I need done…’ she snorted mockingly, a clear sign she felt Cleo’s Place wouldn’t be up to the job.

 

‘No, we can give you a very real life substitute. I give you my word you won’t be able to differentiate between what we supply you with and the real deal,’ Hermione quietly said.

 

She could see the slight disbelief in Bellatrix’s face as well as a thorough longing for it to be true. The latter made Hermione realise there was no getting out from underneath this. Bellatrix Lestrange was never, ever going to get what she wanted from Lord Voldemort himself, and she knew it. So, she came here, to Cleo’s Place, where all your fantasies would come true. And Lestrange was willing to risk everything for it to happen, if only once. Hermione turned around and called Mia.

 

‘Please take Mrs Lestrange to room eleven,’ she said calmly, before turning to Bellatrix again. ‘I hope you will enjoy your stay with us.’

 

‘I’d better,’ Bellatrix threatened, before she followed Mia to room eleven.

 

‘Nasty woman,’ Hermione muttered to herself.

 

‘Tony!’ she called out.

 

A crack, and Tony Apparated beside her. ‘Cleo, my dear, how can I help you out today?’ he asked cheerfully.

 

‘We’re in need of your services, but I’m offering you the option to let this client pass, considering the possible ramifications it can have on you personally.’

 

Tony arched his eyebrow. ‘Okaaaay,’ he said slowly, ‘well, this must be interesting to hear then.’

 

‘The client is Bellatrix Lestrange.’

 

‘Ouch,’ Tony said. ‘So you need me to impersonate You-Know-Who.’

 

‘Only if you are all right with doing it; I am not forcing you to take this client, Tony. I know you have a family and the fall out of this one can become astronomically huge.’

 

Tony sighed for a moment, and then, he shrugged. ‘Oh what the hell, I am a sadist after all, and I certainly am no coward. Hit me with that famous Charm of yours, Mistress Cleo.’

 

Hermione took a hold of the form with Bellatrix’s signature and concentrated. In a swift move, she pulled out her wand, pointed it at Tony and cast the Alteration Charm. A blinding flash and before her stood the tyrant that ruled the world.

 

‘Good luck, my Lord,’ Hermione said, bowing. 

 

‘Luck?’ Tony snarled in a cold, high-pitched voice. ‘Luck has nothing to do with any of my impressive capabilities, Madame Cleo; I suggest you remember that before you open your insolent mouth again.’

 

‘Perfect,’ she whispered, snickering somewhat nervously.

 

‘Of course,’ sneered Tony as he glided away haughtily, ‘it’s what I am: perfection.’

 

‘Room eleven, my Lord,’ Hermione called out after Tony, who gave her a spot on dismissive wave with his hand in return. She stayed at the front desk until Mia returned and took over those duties.

 

That evening, Bellatrix Lestrange left with a dreamy, utterly delighted expression on her face.

 

‘Madame Cleo, my compliments,’ she said on her way out the door. ‘You truly deliver everything you advertise with.’

 

‘We’re glad to have been of service,’ Hermione replied politely, but she couldn’t erase the feeling that this was long from being over.

 

She was right.

 

xxx

 

‘Madame Cleo, Madame Cleo,’ Lynn called out, running into her office, hyperventilating. ‘He—he—he passed out on me, Madame. I don’t know what happened. It wasn’t anything I did. I think he might be dead!’ she squealed.

 

It took Hermione one look at the long red hair and the familiar green eyes to know whom Lynn was speaking off.

 

‘Calm down, Lynn, and watch your breathing before you pass out. Just take me to the Headmaster,’ Hermione said, and she followed the fake Lily to the chamber she had vacated in a hurry.

 

Limbs spread out, he was lying on the floor as they entered. Hermione was glad that her old professor was not butt-naked and still had his trousers on when she had to check his vitals. A faint pulse told her Severus Snape was still among the living. The smell that emanated from his mouth told her enough.

 

‘He’s still alive.’

 

‘Oh, thank Merlin,’ Lynn said, clutching to her chest in relief.

 

‘Just how much did you give him to drink?’ she asked Lynn accusatorily.

 

‘Nothing,’ the woman said, insulted. ‘He was already loaded before he arrived. This isn’t the first time, too. He almost always is.’

 

‘All my fault,’ Snape mumbled, rolling around and looking at Lynn. ‘I failed you—I failed you.’

 

Hermione frowned, worriedly, and glanced back at Lynn who still was the spitting image of Harry’s mum. ‘I’ll take it from here; thank you, Lynn. Go ask Marvin if he has something else for you.’

 

‘But—’ Lynn objected.

 

‘Don’t worry this won’t come back to haunt you,’ Hermione said reassuringly, as she kneeled down and pulled Severus Snape into a seated position against the bed. He slouched down a bit when she let go, but at least stayed somewhat steadily upright.

 

Hesitantly, Lynn left the chamber, looking concerned over her shoulder, while Snape was making more incoherent sounds to the casual observer. Even though Hermione was positive Lynn had to be aware of Snape’s secret, she still didn’t want the witch around for what was to come.

 

‘I should have protected the boy. I failed her.’

 

‘I know, Professor,’ Hermione softly said, while she summoned a vial of Instant Sobering Potion.

 

‘Lily?’ Snape muttered.

 

‘No, sorry Professor Snape, she is dead … remember?’ Hermione responded, holding out the vial to Severus Snape.

 

He glared at it suspiciously.

 

‘It’s Instant Sobering Potion,’ Hermione explained.

 

‘Don’t need that; don’t want that,’ Snape slurred, ‘I like being drunk. Then, I don’t have to feel miserable.’

 

‘Yes, because you’ve always been a really cheerful person.’

 

‘Indeed, indeed.’

 

‘You need to let go, Professor,’ Hermione softly said, putting her arm around him. ‘You can’t raise the dead, and I’d like to think they found peace together.’

 

‘I wasn’t there. I should have been there. I should have stopped that maniac. I should have stopped him. Why did I listen to Dumbledore and follow through on his insipid plans?’ Snape started sobbing. ‘Why? I had so many opportunities. I could’ve just killed him and saved everyone some time. I could’ve saved her son if not for all that damn overly complicated plotting.’

 

Hermione’s eyes widened. This was more information than she’d bargained for, and she looked around the room nervously. Fortunately, no one was there to bear witness to Snape’s drunken words but her. She seriously hoped he was too drunk to remember this conversation later. This was more than a bit of treason. If this got back to Lord Voldemort, Snape and everyone who’d been even remotely in contact with him would be dead.

 

‘Professor, you have to be more careful. You can’t just utter those words around without severe consequences. Someone could overhear you and tell him.’

 

‘A seventeen-year-old boy against _Him_.’ Snape shook his head. ‘I should have been there. I should have finished the murdering bastard myself. It was madness, madness.’

 

‘Professor, you need to drink this now,’ Hermione said forcefully, having enough of all the drunk blabbering. She pushed the vial against his lips and tipped it. Right when his dark eyes cleared, she cast, ‘Somnus!’

 

Hermione shook her head. She wasn’t at all pleased Snape had told her about this obviously big secret he had been keeping, especially since his condition rendered him completely useless to them and he was in essence a serious threat to her now. She sighed, pondering her options before raising her wand again.

 

‘Obliviate!’

 

She left the room, knowing Snape wouldn’t remember his confessions to her, just that he’d passed out drunk with ‘Lily’. Having the matter with Severus Snape resolved, Hermione felt somewhat better even though she was still waiting for the Lestrange backlash to occur.

 

xxx

 

However, the Bellatrix time bomb didn’t burst for another couple of weeks. Naturally, it happened on the one evening Hermione decided to take some time off. She was sitting in her baggy pyjamas in front of the telly, eating a bowl of delicious chocolate ice-cream, when Marvin’s freaked out voice called in for assistance.

 

‘He is here. We are so dead now,’ Marvin squeaked.

 

For a brief second of insanity, Hermione considered making a run for it, but she knew she could never live with herself if she chickened out like that. Besides, she had known this day would come the moment Malfoy set foot in her establishment in Australia and forced her to move over here personally. So, Hermione waved her wand around to change into a professional trouser suit, fastened her cloak around her shoulders, and Apparated into the lobby of her brothel. Surprised, she looked around. She had been expecting an immediate Crucio or worse to strike her down, but everything was quiet, seemingly normal. The Dark Lord was nowhere in sight. Marvin, however, was pacing to and fro, rubbing his hands continuously. He had not even noticed her arrival due to his level of agitation.

 

‘I thought you said the Dark Lord was here?’ Hermione asked, confused.

 

If the circumstances hadn’t been so severe, Hermione would have laughed out loud at the height and strange flailing of limbs that Marvin exhibited in his shocked jump in the air. But right now, she just waited for his answer with a blank expression on her Glamoured features.

 

‘In your office,’ Marvin whispered hoarsely.

 

‘Thank you, Marvin.’

 

Calmly on the outside, Hermione walked to her office and grabbed the doorknob. She might as well get this over and done with. Taking a deep breath, she entered. It was like walking into a brick wall: The way his magic cascaded off of him in waves, engulfing her immediately. If she hadn’t felt the same sensation around Professor Dumbledore in the past, too, it would have frightened her to the very core of her being.

 

It still did. Dumbledore wasn’t prone to torture or kill you with his powers.

 

Though she did not think Lord Voldemort did it deliberately to frighten her right now; he had no way of knowing she was a magical Empath, and only an Empath could feel another person’s magic. Every person had a degree of excess magical energy that their human body simply could not contain, which was disposed of in the magical aura around them. The thicker your aura, the more powerful you were. This was the first time Hermione was in the same room as Lord Voldemort, the first time she truly felt the full extent of his powers. It made her realise Harry never stood a chance. The amount of power he unleashed without effort by just standing there was overwhelming, and she had a hard time focusing her attention and not getting lost in it. After regaining her composure, she closed the door behind her.

 

‘My Lord,’ Hermione said politely, taking off her cloak and putting it on the hanger.

 

The Dark Lord did not acknowledge her presence at first but continued staring outside. His tall figure cast a dark shadow in her office from the light of the lanterns on London Street. He hadn’t bothered turning on the overhead lights, and the couple of chandeliers on the wall flickered eerily. 

 

The tension in the room rose.

 

To a more impulsive person as Hermione he would’ve made a rather tempting target with his back turned and attention seemingly elsewhere, but she wasn’t fooled by that show. Leaving the overhead lights off might make it seem as if she’d be invisible to him in the window, but Hermione had stood where he was plenty of times. She knew the chandeliers on the wall, especially the two on either side of her, still caused her charmed window to function as a suitably enough mirror—it’s why she had them installed, so nobody could sneak up on her. Now, the tables had been turned. She could practically feel his eyes taking in her every move.

 

No, this was a test—one she wasn’t allowed to fail. Noticing she was wiggling with her fingers nervously, Hermione quickly clasped her hands behind her back.

 

 _Get a grip, Granger,_ she scolded herself. _You’re Madame Cleo. You can and will do this. People depend on you. Not to mention an entire resistance movement._

 

She was standing ramrod straight, her professional expression in place when he turned around slowly. His serpentine face was even more inhuman up close and personal. Crimson eyes with slit for pupils bore into hers. Inside his odd alabaster skin colour, they seemed to glow dangerously. To Hermione they represented the burning fires of hell, consuming you until nothing remained but ashes. She definitely didn’t want to be the focus of their attention. Yet, she had no choice in the matter. Those eyes now flickered over her figure before returning to her face.

 

‘Madame … Cleo,’ he said smoothly, barely above a whisper.

 

Alarm bells rang in her mind. All her instincts yelled at her to draw her wand. However, she had to have imagined that hint of irony in his tone of voice when he spoke her name, had she not? His impassive expression and immobile stance gave her nothing to go on. Surely, she would have been cursed already had he identified her? Then again, she was surprised she’d not been cursed already for the reason he was undoubtedly here, and that hellish pitfall of a subject was best avoided altogether. Hermione decided another form of attack was in order.

 

‘How may we be of assistance to you, my Lord?’ she asked. Her mind told her kneeling, a curtsy or at least a bow of her head would be the proper thing to do right now, but somehow she couldn’t get herself to move like that for him, so she just stayed still, keeping what hopefully was a sufficiently polite expression on her face.

 

A flash of emotion—surprise?—crossed his face, and slowly, a grin formed on that seemingly lipless mouth and his red eyes glinted with something devilish. Hermione shifted uneasily.

 

‘ _You_ wish to be of assistance to me?’ he asked, amusement lacing his tone of voice as he glided towards her desk before sitting down on the corner of it, never taking his eyes off of her for a second.

 

She acknowledged the deliberate shift from her business-like use of first person plural to his second person singular for what it was: He was making this personal, and she was the target. Very well, two could play that game.

 

‘I do run an establishment, which provides any and all pleasurable services my clients require,’ she replied with a casual shrug, unclasping her hands. _There, made you a client. Quaffle in your corner_.

 

He tossed his head back, while letting out a short burst of laughter to her statement. ‘And you think I came here as a client?’

 

Cautiously, Hermione moved towards him, stopping just a few feet away. ‘I take great pride in the discretion of all my establishments, including this one. I believe it would be best for all parties concerned if you were here as a client, my Lord.’

 

‘Best for you and your employees perhaps.’

 

‘I could not deny her access to our services under the law of the Ministry for Magic, my Lord.’ _Your Ministry, your rules._ ‘What would you have me do in order to compensate for any slights you’ve felt upon your person?’

 

‘You think I take this personally?’

 

‘You _are_ here.’

 

There was a profound silence after that.

 

‘You wish to make recompenses, Madame Cleo?’ 

 

She didn’t like the malignant glint darting through his eyes. It felt as if she were walking straight into a trap. Yet, there was no choice. It was this or just sit by and watch him murder everyone under her command. ‘In any way _I_ can, my Lord.’

 

‘Do you service other clients personally?’

 

‘Not normally, no.’

 

His gaze burned into her, searching for any falsehoods. She met those penetrating eyes unflinchingly, knowing she’d spoken the truth there. She’d never bedded a client.

 

‘Very well then, I shall be your client.’

 

Hermione bowed her head. ‘Thank you, my Lord.’

 

‘Do not thank me yet, Madame Cleo, you’ve not heard the complete deal. Should I elaborate?’

 

She nodded. ‘Please do.’

 

‘Shall you fail to satisfy me’—a mocking smirk accompanied that statement, creating a worried knot in her stomach—‘not only will I burn this whorehouse with everyone in it to the ground, but the same fate will come to rest on every single one of your overseas businesses and their employees as well. So, what say you? Are you willing to take this deal and risk everything and everyone, or shall we avoid said pleasantries and simply contain my wrath to your London offices?’

 

It didn’t escape her attention that there was no counter offer if she succeeded. Still, she needed this time to think. He’d raised the stakes substantially. Could she risk all those people’s lives on the off chance she’d fail? From his demeanour alone, she knew that he was convinced she would. Why was he so convinced _she_ couldn’t satisfy him? If he were gay, it was a simple transfiguration spell to solve that problem. She could adjust her looks to whatever pleased him. Perhaps he had a kink he was certain she wouldn’t be able to perform? But that made no sense. If he knew about Bellatrix, then he had to be aware she’d welcomed back Macnair over and over again. There was literally nothing she wouldn’t do to save her employees, including fucking Lord Voldemort in whatever possibly sick and distorted way he fantasised about.

 

She was certain there was no way someone with his mind and imagination didn’t have some fantasy, even eunuchs did and had left her brothels satisfied. She knew enough of his history to be aware he wasn’t asexual, so where did this smug, annoying attitude come from? Perhaps he thought to keep his secret fantasy to himself? She almost huffed. Voldemort probably assumed people just told her their fantasies and had no intention to tell her his, and thus, making her fail. He didn’t know she was an Empath. That was one of her best kept secrets. Nobody knew, not even her employees, not even Luna.

 

Her empathic abilities gave room to pause and wonder. There was no way he could block her, could he? She’d never read anything about that option nor had she run into anyone who’d been able to even tell what she was doing to them, let alone block her powers; yet from the overwhelming static in the air around her and the difficulty she had to focus and not drown in his magic, she knew she’d never tried to read someone this powerful before. She had to somehow make sure she got a fair chance.

 

‘And if I succeed?’ she asked.

 

‘Highly unlikely, but if so, I’ll leave your establishments and its employees alone. They can go on living in peace.’

 

‘I’m kind of noticing I’m not included in that list.’

 

‘Perhaps you are, perhaps you are not. Your fate will be decided separately, Madame Cleo, after your … performance. Take it or leave it.’

 

Hermione didn’t like the sound of that, but she could tell it was non-negotiable. This was the best she would get. At least if she succeeded and he killed her, the others still would be around. Luna could lead them. However dreamy and otherworldly the witch could be from time to time, Hermione did trust her and knew Luna had all the information and access she’d need. Plus the trust of the people in their movement, Luna had earned that ages ago.

 

‘You sound awfully sure I will fail.’

 

‘Do I now?’

 

‘I expect a fair chance, no cheating.’

 

‘Now where would be the fun in that?’

 

‘If you are to be my client, then you are my client—just like everyone else.’

 

‘I’m not signing that silly scroll of yours.’

 

‘Fair enough.’

 

It probably wouldn’t do the trick with the amount of power he exuded anyway. It was one of the few reasons she sometimes had to Portkey to one of her establishments in order to read a client. Too much magical powers often led to too many choices, which the charm on her paper couldn’t distinguish between.

 

‘But apart from that,’ she insisted. If he agreed to that, he had to let her in.

 

‘Okay, I’ll be your client … “just like everyone else”,’ he smirked. ‘Does that mean you accept my deal?’

 

Taking in a deep breath, Hermione’s mind raced, seeing the faces of all her London employees and their families. These people trusted her with their lives, every single day. If she didn’t accept, they were dead. However, if she accepted and failed, many more would be doomed. She’d never failed before. There was no way she’d fail now. She couldn’t fail now. She was Hermione Jean Granger, the brightest witch of her age, one of the last remaining Empaths in the world, and dammit all to hell, she would wipe that smug expression of that arrogant bastard’s face.

 

‘I do.’

 

A bright smile spread across Voldemort’s face. ‘Splendid.’ He stood up, moved around her desk, sat down in her chair and gestured at her lazily. ‘You may begin.’

 

Her brow furrowed. Did he expect that all he had to withstand was a common striptease or whatever? Oh boy, was he in over his head.

 

Slowly, she walked around the desk, too. He wheeled the chair around to face her and stretched his long legs out, ankles crossed; one hand propped under his chin, he was watching her expectantly.

 

‘I’ll need to touch you,’ Hermione said, raising her hand hesitantly.

 

‘Really?’ he mocked. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re informing me about that beforehand; it’s quite a shocking revelation, Madame Cleo.’ He patted on his lap.

 

Hermione felt her cheeks flush red. That hadn’t been what she meant, and Merlin, why had she said that? It was just such an automatism to warn normal clients that she had to touch their chests that she’d blurted it out. She needed to keep her head cooler than this. Uncomfortable—well, this was bloody Lord Voldemort—she sat down on his surprisingly muscular thighs, wrapping one arm around his neck and stroking his chest with the palm of her hand. The blatant condescension on his face told her he was very aware of her discomfort and had already counted his winnings before she’d even started.

 

Focusing her empathic powers on the palm of her hand, she followed his magic in and started reading. Emotions flew past, so fast it was hard to hold on—nothing stuck. She concentrated. A massive shock disturbed her reading, travelling through her arm and crashing straight into her brain and the rest of her body. It blasted her off his lap, straight into the wall. With a scream, she smacked to the floor in a crumpled heap, clutching her head in pain, not caring about anything else any more than the excruciating white light that seemed to blind her, despite her already closed eyes. It stabbed into her brain like a surgeon’s scalpel, and she couldn’t shut it out. Her agonising shrieks echoed through the room. She never noticed the pull on her hair, yanking her in a seated position, and the hand that curled around her throat. Blackness surrounded the light, driving it and the pain away; then there was nothing but darkness, emptiness, until her head began feeling fuzzy, clouded. Her senses slowly returned to her, noting the position of her body. Her legs were bend sideways; her back throbbed; her chest ached as if an elephant had sat on it, and someone had a firm grasp on her throat and hair. Hermione blinked, feeling very unlike herself. She tried to move her head to shake away that fuzzy feeling, but couldn’t.

 

‘Wh-what?’ she stuttered, looking straight into those red eyes. Unmoving, he just stared at her, his robes falling around him like a dark halo as he squatted in front of her. Her eyes flickered around, trying to take in where she was and how she got there. ‘What happened?’

 

‘What do you remember?’

 

‘I—I …’ she trailed off, suspicion getting the better of her as her focus tardily returned. ‘What did you do to me?’ She tried to shake him lose, but failed. ‘Let go off me.’

 

‘Where are you?’

 

‘What?’ she asked, confused.

 

‘Answer me,’ he hissed, tightening his grip warningly.

 

‘My-my office.’

 

‘What’s today?’

 

‘Sunday. What is—’

 

‘The date.’

 

‘The Sixteenth of June, 2013.’

 

‘Your name?’

 

‘Cleo McNamara.’

 

He let out a relieved sigh and relaxed his grip, though he didn’t let go. ‘You’re one lucky witch, Madame Cleo.’

 

‘Yeah, I feel incredibly lucky right now,’ Hermione snapped, her eyes ablaze.

 

Voldemort leaned forward, his breath ghosting against her lips. ‘Considering that getting your connection severed while in the midst of an empathic reading can lead to a possible fatality, you should.’

 

Blood drained from her face, and it felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice down her spine. He knew! How was that even possible? Oh Merlin, she was bloody doomed from here to eternity now. Wait a second …

 

‘You knew of that risk and severed the connection anyway!?’ she yelled, furious.

 

‘Reflex. It was a spur of the moment thing. Perhaps this will teach you to be polite and give advance warning before invading someone’s emotions, little Empath.’

 

She didn’t know where it came from. She was just so angry that she blurted it out. ‘Oh, like you always politely ask people if you can invade their minds.’

 

His grip on her throat and hair tightened, and he rose abruptly, yanking her to her feet with him.

 

‘Hey! Let go off me!’

 

Her hand flashed to the pocket where she kept her wand, but he moved in fast, pressing her up against the wall. Her fingers curved around the familiar wood.

 

‘Try it, and I’ll make you watch while I kill everyone here,’ Voldemort hissed, ‘painfully slow.’

 

Realising she wasn’t in the best position to start duelling but still having this overwhelming urge to hurt someone, she stood there in doubt. What was the matter with her? Why couldn’t she think straight? What on earth was she doing, risking? Oh Merlin, emotional residue.

 

_Calm down, calm down, calm down._

 

She released her grip on her wand and pulled her hand out of her pocket, raising both hands up in resignation. ‘My apologies, emotional residue, I’m having trouble shaking off your anger,’ she said, closing her eyes to block him out but still feeling that magical aura pounding against her. ‘Could you, please, put some distance between us … my Lord?’

_Calm down, not your feelings, calm down, calm down._

 

‘If you can’t control it, no amount of distance will do you any good,’ he replied coldly.

 

Instantaneously, anger blurred her thoughts. _No! No, no, calm down. Focus on yourself._

 

She envisioned placing her hands on her belly, barricading herself against the outside world, even though his body was moulded firmly against hers. From her imaginative hands came a bubble, a nice protective bubble surrounding her. There was no room for another’s anger in that bubble, just her own emotions and feelings. And she was calm and collected. Yes, calm and serene. All was peaceful.

 

Finally, Hermione opened her eyes again, not sure how long it had taken and not caring. She’d done it. She was in control of herself again. Right then, he let go of her and stepped back, nodding approvingly. ‘Impressive,’ he said quietly. ‘Most Empaths end up in asylums do to their lacking control. You must have had an excellent teacher.’

 

‘No, the man who told me what I was hardly knew how to control his own abilities. He jumped off a bridge a fortnight after we met, too disturbed about all the emotions around him he kept internalising. I just read everything I could find on the subject,’ Hermione admitted, steadying herself against the wall as she still was somewhat wobbly on her feet. It surprised her that he’d not killed her, despite knowing what she was. Empaths weren’t particularly loved in the Wizarding World; the ability raised a tremendous amount of fear.

 

‘Which isn’t particularly much,’ Voldemort added, looking at her sharply.

 

‘True, the Empath Hunts caused the destruction of all the useful, detailed documents, but Sydney Wizarding College still had some literature in the history section that covered the basics. I just had to work out most things from there and teach myself. Trial and error, I suppose.’

 

‘Hmmm…’ he pondered thoughtfully, leaning back against her desk, ‘and this trial and error approach allowed you to gain this level of control?’

 

She shrugged, ‘There wasn’t an alternative.’ Mentally she added, _And I doubt you’ll appreciate hearing about the excellent use Muggle Psychology has been to me_. 

 

‘I suppose not.’

 

He swirled away, the sudden move startling her. As he sat back down in her chair languorously, leaning sideways against one of the armrests and propping up his head with his hand—long fingers cupping his chin—she felt his gaze burning into every inch of her being, despite his seemingly nonchalant posture. Hermione just stood there, not having a clue right now as to where to go from here. A small smile made its way to his face, raising goosebumps on her skin; there was something too knowing, too malicious in it and it took all her restraint not to bolt right there and then.

 

‘Well, then, little Empath,’ he said mockingly, ‘do you believe you can satisfy me from all the way over there?’

 

Hermione blinked. He wasn’t going to go back on their deal? ‘As you are my client, I will need to read you.’

 

‘You can try.’

 

‘The deal was that you would allow me to do my job as I would with every other client, which includes an empathic reading. I don’t much appreciate being thrown through the room, so no blocking.’

 

He raised his hands in supplication, an amused twinkle darting through his red eyes. ‘No blocking. You’ll be quite safe in my hands, Madame Cleo. I am aware of the boundaries of our deal, and Lord Voldemort always keeps up his end of the bargain. However, whether your abilities are powerful enough to read me remains to be seen, and failure on your end will not be compensated with my assistance.’

 

_Arrogant twat._

 

‘I understand,’ she said, barely able to keep up a straight, professional face when what she really wanted to do was wipe that smug, condescending expression off his or throttle him with her bare hands. Actually, why chose? Both sounded quite appealing to Hermione right about now.

 

Instead, she moved to him and sat down in his lap again, placing her hand on his chest. This time she didn’t try to cover her true intentions by holding and stroking him, she merely closed her eyes and concentrated all her empathic abilities on him. It felt like floating in a sea of magic, his magic—her senses tingled pleasurably, but the previously felt emotions were now undetectable. He wasn’t blocking her, not directly. No, he was holding himself in check.

_Bastard_.

 

She exhaled, letting go completely and allowing her empathic senses to dive deeper and deeper into those traitorous, dark waters. Somewhere, deep down, would be the answer she sought; she knew it. She could feel it, taste it, hear it, see it, and almost touch it as her senses overloaded, overtaken by his magic. She was so close; it was within her reach. Patience, tranquillity, these were her weapons. Rushing would be her downfall. Every ounce of her power focused on this task. Triumph came when the connection was made; she had her answer. It wasn’t a conscious thought, an image or an emotion on his end; it was something fleeting, an insight a lesser Empath would’ve missed. Empathic readings weren’t abstract or logical. It was the one thing Hermione had had difficulties in accepting at first. She wanted things to be explainable in logical, scientific terms. Yet, this wasn’t. She just knew. All in all it resembled Divination too much to her liking. Her sole consolation being that her readings didn’t lead to vague, ambiguous answers. No, she knew. She knew Lord Voldemort’s deepest desire, and it would be his downfall.

 

Breaking the connection somewhat reluctantly, for it felt really nice to float in his power, her eyes snapped open. Swiftly, she scanned her office, shaking her head. This environment wouldn’t do. Steady and certain, she rose from his lap, holding out her hand to him with a polite smile. He seemed surprised, his forehead crinkling. Yet after a brief pause, he took her outstretched hand and allowed her to pull him up from the chair.

 

‘We need someplace more spacious,’ Hermione explained, right before flashing her wand and Disapparating them.

 

They arrived on the top floor of her building; it was completely void of any walls or furniture and the floor-to-ceiling windows would’ve given them an impressive 360 degree view of London if not for the square blockade in the centre that housed the lifts and staircases. She let go of his hand and stepped away.

 

‘One of your latest additions to the building?’ Voldemort asked, looking around. His action seemed casual, but Hermione was astonished, feeling the speed in which he’d magically identified the large space around them—wandlessly, too. She realised that if she’d tried to take him anywhere for an ambush, it would’ve failed miserably.

 

‘Yes, it has the most unrestricted floor space since it’s not scheduled to be finished until the 25th.’ She turned away and flashed her wand at the door to the lift, barricading it.

 

‘And why would you require so much space?’

 

Smiling, Hermione looked back over her shoulder. ‘Shouldn’t you know your own fantasies?’

 

He smirked at her. ‘And you believe it’s loads of concrete with a view?’

 

‘No.’ She whipped her wand above her head. Streams of colours whirled from its tip, creating the illusion of a night sky on the ceiling, while numerous bushes grew rapidly from the floor all around them. As they grew and grew until there was no looking over them anymore, the area they stood in darkened rapidly—the full moon on the ceiling barely giving them enough light to see in that tiny clearing.

 

Light erupted around Hermione. She turned, lowering her wand, knowing she’d not cast an Illumination Charm. Surprised, she took in the Blue Bell flame, hovering right above their heads. She’d expected something a bit more volatile than this from him. Still, he looked positively menacing in that flickering light, and he had his wand out now, causing her to swallow reflexively. Yet, this was part of the game she’d set up, and she steeled her nerves.

 

‘What could possibly be the meaning of all this?’ he asked, gesturing at their surroundings, while taking a threatening step towards her. He clearly had enough of her actions going without an explanation.

 

Hermione tilted her head; her lips curved in a taunting, daring smile as she said, ‘Why don’t you try and find out?’ With a crack, she Apparated to another place in the labyrinth of bushes and added, ‘If you think you’re capable enough to capture me, that is!’

 

His high-pitched laugh to her statement caused her to clutch to her wand even tighter. ‘You believe you can hide from me, little Empath?’

 

‘Well,’ Hermione said daringly, ‘I’m not seeing you, am I?’

 

Loud crackling noises filled the air. Her eyes widened when she saw the wave of flames coming towards her, destroying her carefully created labyrinth. She turned, planning to run, but the flames were already mysteriously all around her. Hermione whirled around, taking in the fire serpent that circled her. She tried Apparition, but it failed. He’d put up some block, and there was nowhere to go. Quickly, she clasped her hands behind her back, holding tightly to her wand, waiting for his inevitable arrival. An opening erupted in the Fiendfyre in front of her as he stepped through.

 

‘Well, that was exceptionally challenging,’ he mocked.

 

‘That’s just cheating,’ Hermione said indignantly, disguising her casting.

 

He leaned forward, towering over her as he whispered, ‘Slytherin.’

 

Morphing the flames behind her back, Hermione craned her neck to meet his eyes, saying, ‘So Slytherins can’t get things done fair and square?’

 

‘Fair and square, hmmm … now that sounds quite like the idiocy a Gryffindor would be wasting their precious energy on.’

 

‘Idiocy such as talking instead of acting?’ she taunted. She saw his slit pupils widen as she stepped backwards through the flames without getting a single burn. With a flick of her wand, she turned them against him. Fire was her speciality, and nobody used her speciality against her. Nobody.

 

His furious scream sent a chill down her spine, and she ran. She knew it wouldn’t take him long to extinguish her attack on his person. She flicked her wand behind her back. New flames erupted from its tip; flames that created not destroyed. Around her the labyrinth rebuilt itself, her flames creating new pathways that were now Fiendfyre-proof.

 

 _Should’ve thought of that beforehand_ , Hermione thought, coming to a halt at a crossway.

 

It was eerily quiet. Too quiet. What was he up to?  She perked her ears.

 

Nothing.

 

Apart from her panting, she couldn’t hear a thing.

 

Could he move that stealthily, or wasn’t he moving at all? If she couldn’t hear him, it became a lot harder to choose which way to go. Hermione looked left and right, then shrugged and started walking cautiously to her right. There was no point in running if you didn’t know where or possibly whom you were running towards. She’d rather safe her breath for later; she was certain she’d be needing it.

 

After taking several turns to her right and not encountering anything, Hermione frowned. As she reached a dead end, she looked around nervously. Something was amiss. Yet, she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. She brushed a branch out of the way and walked back. Why wasn’t there anything happening? She scratched her head. She couldn’t have been wrong, could she? A challenge, a hunt, she had sensed that to be his fantasy—someone who wouldn’t bore him. So why wasn’t he hunting her at all? She turned the corner, dead end. Sighing, she moved in the other direction. Perhaps her labyrinth was too lame for him? Perhaps she should up the ante, but how?

 

Another dead end.

 

Cursing, Hermione stared at the wall of green in front of her. She shouldn’t encounter this many dead ends. This wasn’t her labyrinth! Slowly, she backed away, her pulse quickening. If he’d been able to change the pathways without her noticing, what else had he done to it? She swirled around and ran, her wand flashing to undo his changes. A brick wall suddenly slammed in front of her. Hermione blasted it away, running on and ignoring the debris that hit her. Behind her the labyrinth walls changed to solid bricks, which wasn’t her doing, so she ran harder, flashing her wand at it in intricate moves in order to retake control over her environment. She was so busy shifting the bricks back to bushes that she didn’t pay attention to where she was going. She ran around a corner into a clearing, tripped over a conveniently located branch, and fell flat on her face, coughing into the grass.

 

A low snigger sounded above her. ‘Well, then, there you are, right at my feet where you belong.’

 

Hermione pushed herself up into a crouch, taking in his leisurely posture in the comfortable chair he was sitting in. He gestured around, showing her she was right back in the clearing where all of it had started. ‘I trust it didn’t tire you too much to reach back here?’ he asked conversationally. ‘Though I do appreciate you made haste and didn’t waste my time, it would’ve been a shame if it had turned cold. I’ve taken the liberty to pour you some tea.’

 

Her eyes fell on the table next to him, a perfect décor for a Sunday tea party. There even was a tray filled with scones, muffins, and other delicious snacks. Her face flushed in anger. He’d just been sitting here! On his arse! That was too much of an insult.

 

‘Tea without milk?’ she complained, rising to her feet.

 

With a flick of his wrist, the beverage in her cup changed.

 

‘Show-off,’ she muttered, taking the one blueberry muffin of the tray—somehow knowing they were his favourite.

 

He took a sip of his drink, eyeing her carefully. ‘So, Madame Cleo, care to cut your losses and declare me the victor yet? I’ll sweeten the deal for you.’

 

‘I’m not much of a sweet tooth,’ Hermione countered, pulling the wrapping off the muffin.

 

‘You could’ve fooled me.’

 

Slowly, she took a bite out of the muffin. It truly was delicious. ‘Actually, I think I’m winning.’

 

‘Pray tell how you achieved that delusional conclusion.’

 

She smacked her lips. ‘Well, it seems to me that your way of not engaging in my challenge means you’re afraid it might excite you to do so.’

 

‘And you’re under the mistaken impression that a hunter needs to chase their prey.’ He rose from his seat, leaning down so his breath ghosted against her earlobe, ‘The best way to catch your prey is to make it come to you, willingly, needy, desiring you to capture and take them in any way you wish. That, my dear Empath, is how you show your superiority.’

 

‘No,’ Hermione said, satisfied her voice sounded steady since that speech of his had ensnared her more than she’d like to admit. ‘Superiority means you can fulfill _your_ desires, _your_ needs,’ she turned her head to face him straight on, ‘not fulfill those of your prey.’ She grabbed a hold of his robes, pulling him down as she rose on tiptoes. She kissed him, allowing him to taste the blueberry muffin she’d snatched on her lips. Then, she abruptly pushed him away, causing him to stumble slightly in surprise. Stepping backwards, she made a deliberate show of eating the rest of the muffin. ‘If you can’t even take what you want, without caring what others might think of you, what good is being the ruler of this planet then?’  

 

With a whip of her wand, the air between them turned into the thickest fog and she ran, flashing her wand behind her. Just in time, because the impact of the curse on her shield blasted her straight through several bushes. Hermione thanked the gods that they weren’t bricks anymore as she scrambled to her feet, observing the damage to her clothes and the multitude of scratches on her skin as she ran. She couldn’t stop to heal them, because this time, he _was_ chasing her.

 

And bloody hell, he was fast.

 

Much faster than expected.

 

The distance between them was closing rapidly, aided by the curse he’d cast that caused the branches to hinder her. She had to keep casting at them so they wouldn’t get in the way, which kept giving away her location and disabled her abilities to cast something to slow him down. He was only two corridors away from her now. She had to do something.

 

One of the branches caught her arm, and she swiped it away when the idea struck her. She ran hard to the next corner and then stopped, creating a new bush all around her similar to the other ones. To the naked eye, it seemed like the wall was just continuing when in fact it was something different altogether. She flicked her wand at the path, causing a disruption that made it seem like someone was moving there. Then, she crossed her fingers this would work, otherwise she’d be a sitting duck.

 

It wasn’t long before he appeared. He passed her like a dark whirlwind, and she almost let out a sigh of relief when he stopped halfway into the next corridor.

 

Oh no.

 

Her heart was in her throat, pounding so hard she was certain it was audible from miles away.

 

She couldn’t move now, couldn’t do anything to give away her location. Her fingers clutched to her wand, causing her knuckles to go white.

 

 _Way to go, Granger. Brilliant idea. Challenge Lord Voldemort into chasing you. That’ll help keep you in one piece_. 

 

His fingers stroked the branches where he stood. Confused, Hermione watched as he casually whipped his wand at them. She stood, ready to defend herself, but against what? She’d no idea what that spell had been. There was no visible effect. In the distance she could hear her own spell making its way through the labyrinth, still making it seem as if she were running there. Yet, Voldemort was just standing there, his head tilted to the side like he was waiting for something to occur.

 

Suddenly, Hermione felt staying here was most inadvisable. If he’d cast something that would affect her spell, he’d know she wasn’t there but elsewhere. Right now, she was too close to him and he’d find her in no time. This bush wasn’t perfect. As quietly as possible, she banished the branches behind her and stepped back into the path. She slinked away, going back from where she came, making sure to avoid triggering the grabby branches. She was halfway when her cast spell disintegrated.

 

‘Well, well, well,’ Voldemort’s satisfied voice said softly, freezing her on the spot, ‘made a tiny mistake there, did we?’

 

Hermione concentrated, trying to hear where he was going.

 

‘I wonder how close by you truly are right now,’ he said, amusement lacing his tone of voice. 

 

He was still in the same spot, Hermione deduced, surprised.

 

‘Care to give me a hint, little prey?’

 

_Sure, I’ll give away my location like you do, Lord Chatterbox._

 

‘I’ll go easy on you.’

 

_Not part of the plan, thank you very much. You’re not ready to catch me yet._

 

‘Wouldn’t you like me to heal your wounds?’ He breathed in deeply. ‘I can practically smell your blood.’

 

 _Really, aren’t you supposed to smell mud?_ she thought, rolling her eyes.

 

However, his comment did give her an idea, and she swiped her wand at the direction of his voice, blasting him through all those bushes as he had her. Excitement rushed through her as she succeeded, hearing him crash a lot farther than he’d tossed her.

 

A laugh escaped her lips. ‘There, smell your own blood!’

 

The fight was on for real now. It was unlike anything Hermione had ever experienced. She’d never had to move and cast this fast in her life. It made her blood pump in exhilaration. Her perspiring body had sustained a lot of minor injuries, but she took satisfaction in knowing she’d returned the favour. As she cast another complex attack curse, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled and her mouth smiled. She was enjoying this an awful lot. Curses flew back and forth as she ran and ran and ran. When a Slicing Hex grazed her shoulder, she rolled to the side, using the Reductor Curse. Her hand grabbed her destroyed jacket and yanked it off. The strands of cloth were becoming more and more of a hindrance to her movements. A purplish spell rushed towards her; she had her shield up in time, but it still blasted her several feet away. As she landed, said spell continued to pounce on her shield. Hermione’s eyes widened. What was that?

 

Every time it smashed into her shield, she felt joyous, happy it was holding. Her mind raced over the possibilities to undo this curse whatever it was. Another impact, and despite that her shield flickered, she was exhilarated. She waited, and just before the next impact, lowered her shield and rolled out of the way. She wasn’t quite fast enough. A sharp sting in her thigh made her cry out. Dirt flew into the air as a huge hole appeared next to her. Hermione smirked as he’d basically missed most of her. Again. She flung to her feet, clutching to her injured leg and limping away as fast as she could.

 

‘Hop, hop away, little rabbit, you can’t escape me forever!’

 

She flicked her wand, changing the bushes behind her to something incredibly toxic. His sudden cry made her laugh in victory. ‘Love those grabby branches you created, very handy. I  do hope you brought some anti-venom potions with you!’

 

‘Very creative, little Empath.’

 

Shocked to hear his voice where it shouldn’t be, Hermione turned around. He was standing only a few feet away, his robes equally torn to her clothes and his face looking substantially paler than before. She noticed the pus on the scratch on his arm, which was slowly healing.

 

‘Not all venoms need a potion to heal,’ he explained softly.

 

Her head swivelled back to where she’d heard him scream.

 

‘Oh, I was there a second ago.’

 

 _The anti-Apparition ward is down._ She took a chance, but her Disapparition attempt got blocked. Again.

 

‘You didn’t really think I would keep those down, now did you?’ he asked mockingly, taking a step in her direction. Hermione limped back. His eyes flickered satisfactory to the injury on her leg before he said, ‘Oh, do continue that way. I love what you did to the bushes. I made it a permanent transfiguration.’

 

She paled, halting on the spot. She had no healing potion on her and no clue how he’d healed himself merely by casting. She was basically stuck, unless...

 

She jabbed her wand, evaporating the non-toxic bush walls to her side and creating a larger area for herself to move in. She couldn’t go back, but if she could get past him, there would be no poison to fear of.

 

‘Tsk, tsk, tsk, if you wanted a duelling arena, all you had to do was ask,’ he said, his eyes glinting as he tapped with his wand against his leg before flashing it.

 

Hermione wobbled on her feet, stretching her arms wide to keep her balance, when a rectangular part of the floor moved up and she suddenly found herself on a significantly elevated platform. It swayed too much to her liking and she dropped to her hands and knees, not wanting to fall off.

 

‘Actually, why don’t we take this outside?’

 

To her horror, the platform rushed towards the windows. Quickly, she rolled off the platform, determined to not be hovering that many feet above London while duelling Lord Voldemort. They were on the 40th floor after all, and she couldn’t perform that nifty flying trick of his. As she fell, which took a lot longer than she’d anticipated, his body crashed into her, flying them rapidly past the broken glass still stuck in the metal frame. She clutched to him in fear, realising she’d jumped too late and had been plummeting to her death when he’d caught her. The floor scraped her back as they glided over it until slowly coming to a stop. Still trembling, Hermione didn’t let go, her fingers digging into the fabric of his robes, her face buried against his shoulder—his magic soothed her, made her feel safe, strong, powerful, aroused … and what was that against her thigh?

 

_Victory! I win!_

 

‘I suppose you owe me a wizarding life debt now,’ his voice smoothly said.

 

‘After you were the one to put it in danger, I think not.’

 

‘You set the parameters of this game, my little Empath.’

 

‘Which didn’t include going on a trip outdoors.’

 

‘Then you should’ve blocked the windows as you did the door to the staircase.’

 

‘I blocked the door so others wouldn’t disturb us,’ Hermione said, leaning her head against the floor and looking straight into that serpentine face. ‘The boundaries were pretty obvious, unless you dare tell me your anti-Apparition ward continued beyond this building.’

 

His mouth curved into a broad grin. ‘Slippery of you to consider that.’

 

‘Common sense.’

 

‘Well, Ms Common Sense, I believe I caught you,’ he said, grinding his body against hers. It elicited an unsuspecting moan from her lips. ‘And I don’t think I’ll allow you to flee, this time.’

 

His hand caressed her side in an excruciatingly titillating manner. Part of her wanted to just lie there and enjoy it, but another, much stronger part told her to fight and resist.

 

‘Allow me? Puh!’ she huffed, reaching into her pocket.

 

‘Now, cursing someone will be a bit hard to do without a wand, my little caught prey.’

 

Disbelievingly, Hermione looked at him. Where the hell was her wand and how, _when,_ had he taken it from her without her noticing? Well, it had to be on him. So, she moved her hands over his body, causing him to hiss in delight before he reached out and grabbed them. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, his voice quavering while yanking her hands away from his body.

 

She didn’t let him without a fight. Hermione struggled, wiggling underneath him and yelling in frustration when he pinned her arms down next to her head. Her deliberate actions caused delicious frictions between their bodies, hardening him further. It didn’t just make her feel victorious; it made her wet, too. She really wanted what was coming. She cursed him, called him names to edge him on. It was working. He growled, pushing himself into a crouch and grabbing a hold of her shirt and tearing it away roughly. She immediately wanted to take advantage of her freed hands but couldn’t move them. He’d magically tied them to the ground. So, she made an attempt to knee him and cried out when he pushed on her injured leg in retaliation. Tears sprung to her eyes, and she stilled.

 

‘Good girl,’ he purred, stroking the tears from her face while maintaining the pressure on her wound. ‘You’re ready to submit now, aren’t you?’

 

‘Never.’

 

He dug his knee farther into her leg. The pain was excruciating, and she yelled. Laughing maniacally, he still lifted his weight off it, allowing her a breather.

 

‘What was that?’

 

‘Bastard,’ she retaliated.

 

An unbelievably evil smile made its way to his face. It spurred on conflicting emotions inside Hermione: on the one hand, it chilled her to the marrow of her bones, and on the other, it aroused her so much that she could feel her sex throb almost painfully. Ever so threateningly, he was abruptly in her face. ‘You need to show some respect to your superiors,’ he said, his breath ghosting against her mouth.

 

She licked her lips to suppress the tickling sensation, before replying, ‘Good, seen any?’

 

His expression darkened as he moved, and she started thrashing her lower body around, trying her best to force him off even though knowing it was futile, for he was far stronger physically and had a major advantage with his position on top of her. Yet, it was all part of the game, and she had no trouble playing it convincingly. Something slithered around her ankles and yanked her legs apart. The same thing happened to her arms. Magic, another advantage he had over her right now. Hermione growled in frustration, causing him to laugh eerily.

 

‘Care to surrender yet?’ he taunted.

 

‘Cheater,’ she snapped, glaring.

 

‘I take that as a no,’ he replied, his face expressing his delight with that. ‘No matter, you are mine now.’ He sat down on his heels between her legs, admiring the view of her spread-eagled body. ‘And I believe I should show you just how much,’ he added, pulling a silver dagger from his robe and holding it out for her to take in every sharp detail.

 

She suppressed the thrill of fear overtaking her senses as he trailed the blunt side of it along the edge of her face, slowly moving past her throat towards her shoulder, hooking underneath her bra strap and slicing through it like butter. The audible snap made her jerk and caused the blade to nick her. A cold trickle of blood slowly slid down her chest.

 

‘Tsk, tsk, tsk… now look what you’ve done,’ Voldemort said, trailing the knife down her side and holding it there as he lapped up her blood, his tongue darting over the wound in circles. He moved back up, eyes glinting, while trailing the blade over her belly. She held herself as still as possible, but the gasp escaped her when she felt the pinprick of the blade.

 

‘Oops, that one is on me,’ he said lightly.

 

Hermione glared at him. He wasn’t even trying to disguise it wasn’t an accident with that insincere tone of voice. Several more times, he nicked her lightly with the blade as he moved back up on the other side of her body, each time dulling the pain with his mouth. He sliced away the other bra strap with ease.

 

‘Good girl,’ he purred when she stayed still this time. ‘You’ve finally come to realise it’s my decision when and where to harm your body.’

 

She really wanted to say something to the contrary, but with that sharp dagger trailing down her breastbone, it didn’t seem advisable to her. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut when the dagger reached between her breasts and slowly moved under her bra. In one swift upward move, the fabric came apart, freeing her breasts from their confinement.

 

She gasped, arching her back when her nipple came into contact with the coldness of the blade. Goosebumps flushed over her body as her nipple stood at attention. He chuckled, trailing the blunt side of the knife over her breast before moving to the other one and circling her areola. Both her nipples had hardened, her breasts feeling almost painfully swollen. She swallowed when he used the tip to stroke her breasts; her heart pounding loudly in her ears. The relieved sigh she let out when he moved downwards immediately got rewarded with light cut across her belly.

 

‘Perhaps I should carve my name into you?’ he suggested. ‘Make sure all know who you belong to.’

 

‘Is your rule so limited that you need to leave behind proof to stop others from touching what’s yours?’

 

She knew her sassy remark would have consequences and clenched her teeth as he lightly sliced into her skin from hip to ankle as he cut through her trousers. Even though it hurt, she could tell there was very little real damage from the way it hardly bled. He truly was proficient with a knife. Her other leg got the same treatment, but as she clenched up when the dagger reached that throbbing wound, she was surprised as it sealed close upon contact and healed instantaneously. Her eyes snapped open, looking at him in a mixture of surprise and gratitude. He merely smirked, grabbing her knickers with his fist and yanking it off of her violently.

 

‘Ow!’ she yelped, feeling her skin burn where the fabric had left nasty red marks. A string of curses came his way and he pressed the knife to her throat, silencing her at once.

 

‘Be careful, little Empath,’ he said barely above a whisper, ‘I’ve been lenient with you so far, but my patience has an end.’ He grabbed her breast and squeezed it harshly. ‘Behave or I will show you the true meaning of pain.’ His fingers trailed over the wounds on her belly, making her twitch. ‘Then again,’ he added, tilting his head thoughtfully as he cupped her pubic bone and stroked through her wet curls, ‘you seem to enjoy such a treatment, don’t you?’ he asked, deliberately nicking her clit with his nail at that exact moment.

 

A bolt of electricity travelled through her body, a strangled noise unlike she ever heard herself make, filled with unsatisfied need and want and desire, left her mouth as she pressed up against him.

 

‘Oh yes, you do,’ he said, sounding extremely pleased with himself, while he tapped on her clit rhythmically. Every single time his finger came in contact with her clit, tiny shockwaves made her arch and twist and moan, bringing her closer and closer. Suddenly, he yanked her up into the air—the restraints on her legs now forcing her to wrap them around over his shoulders—and he pressed his mouth to her clit, sucking at it hard. Hermione screamed, her whole body tingling; blood rushing to her head and pounding inside her sex. She could feel it coming. So close. His tongue slithered through her folds, making her groan in anticipation, right before he dipped his tongue inside her, lapping at her fluids. When he scratched over her clit with his fingernail again, it was too much. Her toes curling, her body shuddered all over as she came loudly for him, screaming indistinguishable noises.

 

Swiftly, he lowered her shaking body to the ground, keeping her legs tied to his shoulders. He yanked open his robes and entered her with one harsh push. Her folded-up position caused him to hit her G-spot straight on, and Hermione writhed violently, jerking her bound hands and tossing her head from side to side as he rode out her orgasm until she slumped underneath him, panting heavily, too exhausted to move. He dropped her legs off his shoulders, moving them around his hips without her conscious awareness, as he stilled inside her, still hard, and grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

 

‘Next time you come, you will scream my name, wench,’ he snarled, digging his nails into her skin.

 

Her heavy breaths were all the response he got back.

 

‘Answer me,’ he hissed.

 

‘Ye—’ Hermione breathed. ‘Yes,’ she exhaled, and inhaled. ‘My.’ Another exhale, inhale. ‘Lord.’

 

She panted, sure there was no way she could do anything anymore, let alone get another orgasm. She was done, cooked. She didn’t even care that he was still hard, and if she didn’t get him to come, she’d lose their deal and people would die. Right now all she cared about was resting, perhaps sleeping. Yes, sleeping sounded nice. She closed her eyes.

 

‘Crucio.’

 

Voldemort groaned in delight as Hermione thrashed and writhed around his cock. He kept the curse on her for quite some time, enjoying the sensations of her inner walls convulsing around him as she screamed her throat hoarse in pain.

 

‘Now that you’re awake again,’ he said smoothly, after lifting the Cruciatus Curse, ‘I suggest you pay attention to your job, little whore of mine, or I will keep you under the Cruciatus until your thrashing makes me come and I won’t count that as a success on your part. Is that clear?’

 

‘Crystal,’ Hermione replied, no longer feeling sleepy at all, her body still twisting from aftershocks.

 

‘Good.’

 

Leaning on one arm, he began thrusting again, his eyes firmly on hers as his other hand fondled her breast, squeezing it harshly and scratching his nails over her hardened peak. Hermione didn’t look away; she kept meeting that penetrating red gaze of his in the same manner she met his violent thrusts, with determination. Her legs pulled him harder towards her every time he pounded into her and her walls clenched around his cock as he attempted to pull out, giving him the most wondrous friction ever. She winced when he pinched her nipple. That ecstatic pained expression suited her, and he let go of the control of his magic, engulfing her from every side. Her eyes glazed over and she gasped, her mouth forming a tiny ‘O’ that he felt the need to capture. His lips closed over hers and his tongue darted inside. Hermione moaned against him, enjoying the feel of his tongue against hers, the pressure and demand of it. She was drowning in his magic, every inch of her body was his to command and she wanted him to do as he pleased.

 

‘That’s my girl,’ he breathed, feeling he was close. ‘Come for me, little Mudblood.’ 

 

Hermione groaned, not registering the insult as her whole body felt like it was on fire.

 

‘Come for your Master,’ he purred, barely able to hold himself back, ‘NOW!’ He pressed his thumb against her clit and sent her over the edge.

 

‘My Lord!’ Hermione screamed, her whole body shaking in ecstasy.

 

He came right after her, his back arching as he spilled his seed into her womb, followed by a burst of magic that made her eyes roll to the back of her head as she arched to accommodate for its sheer force to enter her, touching every neural pathway, every cell of her body in a delicious manner until it engulfed her heart and stabbed into it. Her eyes flashed open from the pain and she screamed again, thrashing in despair.

 

‘Stop! Please stop!’ she yelled, frightened.

 

His cold eyes gave her no relief. She fought hard against the pain, trying to keep out that force that stabbed into her heart, certain it was killing her. His mouth pressed over hers, biting her lip. The brief distraction forced her surrender. She gasped, sobbed, and then, slumped—her body dropping limp to the floor. Voldemort unlocked the magical bindings on her limbs and slowly pulled himself out of her, lying down on his side next to her and closing his robes magically. He propped his head under his hand and looked down at her perspiring, exhausted face. Her eyelashes flickered, she was fighting to stay conscious.

 

And winning. His tough, little witch.

 

Hermione swallowed away the dry lump that had formed in her throat, staring up at that triumphant face above her, unease filling her from head to toe. What had he done?

 

‘Congratulations, my dear. It seems you fulfilled your end of the bargain; your personnel will be spared,’ he said smoothly, stroking a strand of wet hair out of her face in an almost loving gesture. That heightened her unease even more than any kind of torture he could’ve performed. Had she been imagining things or had he really called her ‘Mudblood’ during?

 

‘But you seem on edge, darling. Perhaps it’s time to dispense with the pleasantries?’ He flicked his wrist to make his wand appear. ‘Let’s talk about your fate, shall we, Hermione Jean Granger?’  

 

She felt his magic and couldn’t stop it, even if there had been a point to doing that. Her facial features shifted, eyes turning brown, bone structure returning to normal; her hair seemed to explode, brown wet curls framing her perspiring face—a face she hadn’t donned in years, a face plastered on every wanted poster in the world.

 

‘Yes, this is definitely more suiting to you,’ Voldemort said conversationally, his eyes flickering over her new appearance appreciatively.  

 

‘What did you do to me?’ she hissed.

 

He smirked. ‘I fucked you, “Madame Cleo”,’ he said crudely. ‘And you really enjoyed it, didn’t you?’

 

Hermione gritted her teeth.

 

‘Now, now, don’t be like that, little Empath. You know, you _are_ a very lucky girl.’

 

‘Really? Wow, that’s just …’ she shook her head in disbelief, ‘nope, not having the right words to describe this amount of arrogance.’

 

‘Perhaps you should read more then,’ he taunted, flicking his wrist and making a book appear in his hand.

 

Hermione’s eyes widened as she read the title. ‘How did you get that?’ she gasped. ‘Wizarding fundamentalists destroyed every last copy in the Seventies.’

 

‘Too bad for them I already nicked one from the Washington Museum then. Care to read it, little Empath, and learn the full truth and scope of your powers?’

 

Hermione’s eyes flickered between his face and the book; her suspicion rising. ‘And why would you do me this favour? Come to think of it, why aren’t you killing my disgusting Mudblood Empath body on sight?’

 

Lord Voldemort pocketed the book in his robes with a sigh and wrapped his arm around her waist. ‘You clearly are mistaken me for your previous governments, Miss Granger. You’ve been on the wrong side of this war from the beginning.’

 

She snorted.

 

He captured her with an icy stare. ‘Do you really believe Fudge or Scrimgeour would’ve let you live had they realised what you were, of the power you hold? Fudge,’ he snorted, ‘who was terrified already that Albus Dumbledore would take over his precious ministry and reacted as if the man had ever shown any ambition towards doing so.’

 

‘I never knew you were a part of the Dumbledore fan club,’ Hermione sneered.

 

‘He was a worthy adversary, unlike the rest of them,’ Voldemort said, shrugging. ‘Now stop dancing around the subject with your sassy remarks and answer me.’

 

She bit her lip. Truth was that she had been glad she’d never let slip how she could feel magic around her when she’d found out just how much Empaths were hated in the Wizarding World. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘I know what laws are in the books, but the last Empath to be executed in the United Kingdom was MacCallen and that was all the way back in 1867.’

 

‘What laws _were_ in the books,’ Voldemort corrected. ‘I had that idiocy scrapped right away. And if you want to cling to the option that they wouldn’t have executed you, you’re not as clever as your reputation suggest you are. Or have you forgotten all the innocent people they incarcerated for being Death Eaters?’ he laughed loudly. ‘Who needs friends when you’ve got enemies who drive everyone straight into your hands?’

 

Hermione shivered, suddenly feeling the cold and being uncomfortable about her nakedness. His hand rubbed her side. ‘Cold?’ he asked soothingly.

 

She nodded.

 

With a flash, her body was clothed in a silky robe; a Heating Charm took care of the remaining chill. Yet, she still was uncomfortable, despite being warm.

 

‘You may have scrapped that idiocy,’ she said softly, ‘but you exchanged it for another one. So now what? I should be thankful to you that you’re not going execute me for being an Empath but for being a Muggle-born witch? Ridiculous, unfounded bigotry.’ She looked away from him, her eyes flashing in anger.

 

‘I’m not going to execute you. Miss Granger. Your abilities are too rare and precious to lay to waste. I plan to assist you in honing your skills.’

 

Hermione laughed, though it was without amusement. ‘You think I want your assistance, your help? Go to hell.’

 

He pulled her on top of him and spun on the spot. They arrived in her luxurious London flat and he let go off her, holding out the book. When she folded her arms across her chest, he merely sighed and dropped it on her table.

 

‘I suggest you read this and when you’re done, ask Lucius Malfoy to take you to me when you’re ready. I believe you see him often enough in your establishment. I’ll make sure he’ll be aware that “Madame Cleo” is allowed to visit my headquarters and to take you to me immediately when asked.’ Voldemort turned away from her. ‘Oh, one more thing,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘I understand why you have brothels in every major capital in the world, Hermione Granger. You will bring me the information you undoubtedly have stored somewhere safe, and you will not contact your little resistance movement about any of this or I will eliminate them all. Believe me when I say that after tonight, I can and I will. I don’t ever make idle threats, Miss Granger. Goodnight.’

 

Stunned, Hermione watched as he Disapparated, her wand clattering on the wooden floor where he’d just been. She rushed to it, feeling the familiar tingle of magic as she picked it up and held it tightly in her hand in order to regain some feeling of security. He hadn’t killed or incarcerated her. He’d let her keep her wand! He’d given her the book. And he’d made demands he had to have known she wouldn’t want to keep as if she had no choice in the matter.

 

‘What have you done to me?’ Hermione worried out loud, picking up the book that she was certain would contain the answer to that question. She plunked down on the sofa and started reading. There was no point in putting your head in the sand. She had to know now—the sooner she could begin countering his actions, because there was no way she would just lie down and surrender to him. No way.

 

xxx

 

His mood exceptionally cheerful, Lord Voldemort strode through his headquarters, rushing towards his private chambers. He’d gone to that brothel to get revenge, instead he’d gained so much more. The end of that pathetic band of resistance fighters, every possible traitor or doubter listed in Granger’s brothel files, and the best of all, his own personal Empath. His smirk widened, imagining the furious expression on her face when she would get to ‘Chapter 24: The Claiming of an Empath’.

 

He’d started it when he’d recognised what she was upon her first reading of him, attacking her mind predominantly and her heart secondly. It had been more of way to torture her at first, not thinking her abilities would be powerful enough to take his magic, but she’d surprised him by recovering so quickly and being so honest about her history. Claiming her for real had then become his primary objective. She’d unwittingly performed the next stage by wanting to accommodate to his desires to save her people and tuning into his magic to do so. Every action she took in that labyrinth had been to please him. Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on the railing of the stairs he ascended. Her empathic abilities so in sync, so worthy of his magic, it was magnificent to watch. And then, he’d finished it, this time focussing on her heart, and she’d surrendered. Oh had she surrendered.

 

He stopped walking, clenching to the railing as he grew hard again.

 

Taken her had been such a heady rush, such a sweet victory over that little witch who used to be his enemy, he couldn’t wait to show her just how much she belonged to him now. She would start to feel it soon, he knew. The physical distance would become painful to her; her need for him would grow and grow, until she could no longer resist her desires—the needs of her Empath self to be with its Master—and she would come rushing to his side, begging his aid.

 

Undoubtedly, it would be magnificent to watch: to bend such a defiant, magnificent witch to his will, make her kneel and beg for his mercy—he would take great pleasure in that. He was already looking forward to it. He wanted to feel that little, delicious body around his again, to hear her scream his name in submission as he used her in every way he pleased.

 

Absentmindedly, he stroked himself through his robes.

 

He couldn’t wait for the time when he could finally rip apart that hideous disguise around her permanently, hold those wild, untamed curls between his fingers, and show the world who had succumb to him, Lord Voldemort, the most powerful wizard of all. The thought alone caused him to come abruptly, and he closed his eyes, tossing his bald head back in ecstasy.

 

Hermione Jean Granger was his now, and he planned to make good use of her services.

 

xxx

 

Quietly, Hermione closed the book in her lap and stared ahead, a thoughtful expression forming on her face. ‘And you had the nerve to suggest I should read more?’ she said indignantly. ‘You may think you’ve won now, but perhaps you should’ve read closer.’

 

Lord Voldemort was hers now, and she planned to make good use of his services.

 

xxx

 

_The End_


End file.
